It was a stupid—idiotic—miscalculation that left him in this current predicament.

Stupid. So stupid.

Could be the sleep deprivation. Or the lack of food.

Or maybe it's just that his already tenuous impulse control and self-preservation instinct have become even weaker than they were before. After all, the only people who matter already think he's dead.

But whatever the reason, he made a mistake—

"Can I get that in writing? I, Sherlock Holmes, made a mistake."

"Yes, John, I'll be sure to include it in the last will and testament that I should probably be writing at this very moment."

He miscalculated—and now he's been shot—there's blood, seeping through the layers of clothes—but he managed to drag himself back to his latest bolt hole—fortunately, it wasn't far, and it's late enough that he could slip through the back streets unnoticed—

But now—now he doesn't know what to do, and he can feel his strength fading away with every passing second.

And that's when John came to his rescue.

"I knew it was only a matter of time before you got shot, you bloody idiot."

"What an apt obscenity to use, given the fact that I am in fact drenched in my own blood."

"This isn't funny, Sherlock."

"Then maybe you shouldn't be making jokes."

John looks as pained as Sherlock feels.

"Sherlock, you're dying."

"I know."

And he does. He can feel it, in the way his heart beats faster and lighter, the way his head swims, the way he has to fight for each breath.

With that in mind—feeling the walls close in on him, he tries to say it—

"It's good—I'm glad—"

But even in the safety of his own mind, Sherlock can't say the words.

Fortunately—in this place, with this John—he doesn't have to.

"I know."

John favors him with a small, sad smile, but then the smile fades, and the sadness deepens, as he adds—

"But Sherlock—I'm not really here."

Those words—they hurt—he feels it in his chest and his throat—every other part of him aches too—the blood is warm, but the rest of him is so, so cold—and he's so tired—all he wants is just to let go—he's already a dead man after all—

But he can see the look on John's face—the look of anger that only John can convey in those moments when he lets the mask slip, and the soldier takes hold.

"No, Sherlock, you don't get to die, not like this. You can't die with me still thinking that you threw yourself off a building. You have to live."

He wants to argue, but he can't. Not with John. Not about this.

So instead, he asks,

"How?"

And John softens. Now he's the doctor: efficient, competent, clinical.

"We need to locate the source of the bleeding and find the worst of the damage. Take off your shirt if you can—"

Even though he feels himself fading away with every passing second, Sherlock can't restrain himself from one more retort—

"Trying to get me to undress, John? People will talk."

And John—steadfast, patient—indulges him—

"They do little else."

And the reminder of that night—the terror—of finding John wrapped in explosives—the relief—and then the fear again—and the knowledge that John, without pause, without reservation, was willing to give his life—

It's enough—enough to give Sherlock the strength to fight back against the pain—there is so much pain—god it hurts—as he clumsily pulls off his shirt—looks down at his chest—to find the source—

And there it is. A small hole in his left shoulder, just below the clavicle.

He stares at it with detachment.

"So much blood for such a small hole."

"You may have nicked a small artery. You're lucky, though. With a location like that, it could have been much worse."

"Yes, lucky me."

John chooses not to respond to that. He's still in Dr. Watson mode, so instead, he asks—

"Is there a hole on the other side?"

Sherlock tries to crane his neck, but his spine is too stiff, so—even as his gut twists with the pain—he reaches over his shoulder with his right hand—probing the area of his left shoulder blade—doing his best to ignore the pain—until he can tell—

"No there doesn't seem to be."

"Okay, that's probably for the best. Should be easier to stop the bleeding this way. Although, without any way to take the bullet out—well, we'll have to manage."

Sherlock should know—he should have known how to handle this—but in this moment he can't. He needs John—couldn't do this without him anymore.

"What should I do?"

"Do you have a first aid kit?"

"Mycroft sent some things—"

"Where is it?"

"No idea. I probably burned it, like I do with most of my Mycroft-affiliated possessions."

"You don't remember?"

"Well, maybe if someone hadn't taken up permanent residence in my mind palace, I might be able to."

"Yeah, sorry about that."

John's expression is at first sheepish, before turning thoughtful—

"Where would you have been when you got the package?"

"Usually Mycroft's packages magically appear under the kitchen sink. I still haven't figured out how he manages that."

"And you probably would have opened it right away—"

"And immediately disposed of it."

"Yes, but you're still you, Sherlock. Your version of 'disposing' of things usually involves putting them in the closest place where you don't have to see them, like—"

"The fridge!"

Fortunately, he's already in the kitchen—bleeding all over the wooden table—so he only has to drag himself a few feet—open the fridge—and there it is.

"Brilliant deduction, John."

"Can I also get that in writing?"

"Hmm, I think not. After all, you can't really take credit for this. You're still just a figment of my imagination—"

"So really, you were calling yourself brilliant. Well, good to see nothing's changed."

"Actually it has. Usually you would be the one praising my mental prowess."

"I'm saving it up for a time when you didn't nearly bleed out because of your own carelessness."

"Your bedside manner needs improvement, John."

"You're one to talk."

"Well, there's a reason only one of us is a doctor."

"And a soldier."

"Yes, of course. You killed people."

"But only on the bad days."

"Are there ever any good days in Afghanistan?"

John gives Sherlock an exasperated—but fond—look.

"Fair point."

They're silent after that, for a few long moments—and it's comfortable enough that Sherlock can almost forget the hole in his body—until he feels another stab of pain, and looks down, with a grimace, before his switches to a lighter tone.

"So John, you do know what this means, don't you?"

"That you've officially lost your mind?"

Clearly John's thoughts are moving in a different direction.

"No, the bullet wound. In my left shoulder."

Sherlock pauses, for effect, and then—

"We're twins."

John only deems that comment worthy of a quick glare and a weary shake of his head, and then he's back to Dr. Watson.

"We need to get you cleaned up now."

And so just like that, John coaches him through cleaning the area, packing it with gauze, and dressing the wound—

"This would hurt a lot less if the bandages weren't so cold."

"I hope you remember this the next time you put your first aid kit in the fridge."

"I wasn't expecting to actually need it."

"You're really dense for a genius."

"You should be nicer to me. I do have a bullet hole in my shoulder."

—And although Sherlock's first aid attempt isn't perfect, already the flow of blood has slowed significantly.

While Sherlock could never be described as 'compliant,' nevertheless, when John urges him to drink plenty of water—you lost a lot of blood, need to rehydrate—and forces him to eat some crackers—this is not the time for starving yourself—he does it all, without complaint. Or, at least without much complaint.

"You should go to bed now. Get some rest. I know you haven't been sleeping lately."

Sherlock would object, if only for appearance's sake, but after hearing those words, he realizes that he is so tired. Every muscle in his body is crying out for relief. So with a shrug, he says, "You're the doctor."

And—with great effort—he pushes himself up from his current spot on the kitchen floor and stumbles his way into the living area where he's about to throw himself down on the sofa before John interferes—

"Nope, bed for you. You're going to be sore enough in the morning without spending the night on that thing."

Too tired to object—and not wanting to acknowledge the wisdom in those words—Sherlock redirects his steps towards the bedroom, and once there, he prepares to throw himself on top of the still made bed—

"Under the covers, Sherlock. You don't want to spend the rest of the night shivering, do you?"

"You're starting to sound like Mycroft."

"Well, we can't have that. I guess I'll just shut up then."

Those words sting more than Sherlock would have even expected. Fortunately, John didn't really mean them.

"Just try to get some sleep."

Sleep. It's never sounded so appealing, even as he crawls under the scratchy covers, and lies down on his right side, pain radiating out from the bullet wound in his left shoulder.

The adrenalin is finally fading, leaving a hollow feeling in his chest—and so he allows himself to imagine the bed dipping down, John sitting beside him—on top of the covers, not to sleep, just to watch over him—a nighttime vigil—and he can almost feel the warmth of another body—the comfort of that presence—John, his John—and because none of this is real, because it's only happening in his head, he allows himself to say—

"Stay with me."

And in this time and place, John knows just how to respond—

"Always."

Even though none of this is real, it's close enough to let him drift off peacefully into sleep.

"Sherlock, this isn't up for discussion."

"Apparently it is, as we are currently discussing it."

"You don't have a choice. You have to do this. You won't even have to talk to him. Just send out one of your secret messages—"

"I refuse to ask Mycroft for his assistance in this matter. He would never let me hear the end of it. He might even drag me back to London."

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

Sherlock can't answer that. The truth is so simple and so complicated all at once. Yes, it would be catastrophic. He hasn't finished the work. He has to finish this work. He can't return until he knows that they will be safe. John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson—he has to protect them at any cost.

But that doesn't stop him from desperately wanting to return to his life in London.

So he doesn't respond. He just stares silently and sullenly out the window.

For his part, John just returns to the topic of their original argument.

"You need to tell Mycroft that you require medical attention. We were able to manage the triage well enough, but you still have a bullet lodged somewhere in your left shoulder, and the last thing we need is for you to slip into sepsis in a third world country. I know you hate asking for help—"

"That's patently false. I frequently asked for your help in sending text messages, bringing me tea, running my errands—"

"Yes, fine, you're perfectly capable of asking for help doing tasks that are trivially easy for you to accomplish yourself. That doesn't change the fact that getting you to ask for help when you actually need it is nearly impossible."

Sherlock can't argue with that, so he just returns to petulant silence.

"Please, Sherlock. Even if you don't want to do this for yourself, do it for me. You know I won't be able to stop worrying until you do."

John's plea might be enough to shake Sherlock's resolve except—

"Is that really supposed to sway me, considering you are in fact a fabrication of my own brain?"

"If I was actually there—"

"Were. 'If I were actually there.' No one remembers to use the subjunctive case anymore."

"You're a pedantic ass when you're not feeling well."

"Bravo, John. Have you been reading dictionaries in my absence?"

"Piss off, Sherlock."

"You first."

"You really are impossible when you're in pain."

"If you think I'm difficult, you should see Mycroft. He whines like a colicky baby when he's the least bit under the weather"

"I really hope I never have the opportunity to experience that. But getting back to my original point—"

"Really, John—"

"If I were there myself, in the flesh, what do you think I would do?"

"We'd have this same argument, and then you'd probably end up contacting Mycroft yourself."

"And if I didn't have a way of getting in touch with him?"

"You'd probably knock me out and drag me to the doctor yourself."

"Yes, but if I were forced to resort to less violent methods—"

"Then you'd probably try to guilt me into it."

"And what would your response be?"

"I'd scoff at your sentimentalism and paltry attempts at emotional manipulation, and then I'd do what you ask, because as much as I tend to disregard the well being of others, I never really liked to see you suffer on my account."

In response to that, John just crosses his arms and waits.

"Fine, fine, I'll do it. And while I'm at it, do you have any other onerous tasks you'd like to foist onto me?"

"No more smoking until you're healed up."

"But John, this Neanderthal country doesn't sell nicotine patches. How am I supposed to take down deeply entrenched criminal networks—"

"You'll find a way to manage, Sherlock. You always do."

"I hate you."

"You're welcome. Now get in touch with Mycroft, and then we can watch some crap telly together."

For once in his life, Sherlock does exactly as he's told, and despite his natural instinct to analyze everything, he tries not to question the way in which John has returned to his life, because now that he's here, Sherlock can't imagine continuing on any other way.

A/N: I really hope you enjoyed the second chapter of this story! One of my favorite parts of the Sherlock series is the relationship between Sherlock and John: their shared sense of humor, the chemistry between them, the subtle ways that they show affection for each other. I hope that I'm doing a decent job of capturing that in here, even though the structure is a little unconventional.

If you have a moment to leave a comment, that would be awesome. I always appreciate getting any type of feedback. Thanks for reading!